Empty
My porch is empty after discarding the
shrivelled plants you had abandoned.
Your goldfish died last week, only the
empty bowl remains, devoid of emotion.
I couldn’t find the dull shade of purple lilacs
for your crystal flower vase.
Each crystal now stares at me with
wide empty eyes.
There is a blank page in my diary where
I wanted to write a sad poem for you
but I felt a void in my brain.
My coffee mug which you had painted
with much ardour won’t see the bin
but will never be filled again.
The bare walls of my room from which
I have stripped our pictures
want to make peace with me.
I sit alone in our favourite café
with the rich aroma of baked breads.
It no longer mingles with your
strong perfume and fades away.
The dark clouds outside will pass and
maybe the ones inside me too.
Evening Shift
I walk on the wet grass.
Its smell reminds me of my
grandma’s unkept garden.
Few heads turn in the office lawn.
I am the only lady in this shift:
a gloomy spirit wandering in the dark.
The limited menu in the cafeteria is an
example of my subjugation.
I call my husband while enduring the
salty egg curry with chapatis.
His number is busy as usual –
loud empty rings fill my ears.
I decided to move to this strange city
for my work.
He easily disregards me now.
My mother worries that love can’t be
arranged like marriage.
Bonds don’t grow like her money plants.
I dip the chamomile tea bag in the
hot water from the vending machine.
The warmth of the cup and the taste
don’t have its promising effect.
Who keeps promises anymore?
An hour later there is still no text or call.
I am getting used to it.
Just wish I could fix my life
like debugging the computer codes.
I wait to board the night cab.
That will give me a safe ride to the place
I now call home.
It had rained in the evening and
the sky is clear.
Wish a star would fall onto my palm.
To let me know that it all worked out
a decade later as I learnt to let go.
Remembrance
How will you remember me?
And will you remember me?
Not that I care much, as it will be
probably too late for me.
Maybe the wind will bring you a
certain whiff of my lost smile.
My scribbled notes in the books
of the library, may speak of me.
Hope the library will be remodelled
but not demolished
because of digitisation.
I am not very fond of dogs
but I gave shelter to one
deserted by its previous owner.
Maybe it will give a hint of me with
its sad eyes and an awful snarl.
My book if still not out of print
may add a few glimpses to
my irrecoverable personality.
The craggy lines of my sketches
will give a spiel about my inhibitions.
The walls of my house that maybe
mouldered, won’t hesitate to triumph
about shielding me from my dreams.
There is a teak tree in my orchard.
If still not chopped will have the names
I had so wistfully carved on its bark.
Hope there will be something left of
me when I am gone.
Not that I care much, after all,
a lot will be forgotten from my time.
Mitra Samal mostly writes poems and short stories. She is a software consultant with a passion for both technology and literature. Her poems and stories have previously appeared in several literary magazines and portals.